VENUS, MARS AND HELL

  By John Lambshead and Eric Flint

  Venus, Mars and Hell Copyright © 2019 by John Lambshead and Eric Flint. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Eric Flint's Ring of Fire Press handles DRM simply we trust the honor of our readers.

  Cover designed by Laura Givens

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  John Lambshead

  Visit my website at http://johnstoysoldiers.blogspot.com/

  Eric Flint

  Visit my website at https://www.ericflint.net/

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: Aug 2019

  Eric Flint's Ring of Fire Press

  ebook ISBN-13 978-1-948818-46-9

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13 978-1-948818-47-6

  CONTENTS

  Storming Hell

  Storming Venus

  In the Matter of Savinkov

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Storming Hell

  By John Lambshead

  The sun rose slowly on another long day. Crystal showers of frozen air fell gently, sublimed upwards under the sun's rays, only to refreeze and fall again. Fine snow littered the surface like baking sugar, lending the splintered landscape a surreal beauty. This was a place of dialectical extremes, of hot and cold, of light and dark and of stone and dust.

  The only splash of colour came from Sarah's multiple reflections in the viewing port. Convention decreed that her long dress and tailored jacket be Royal Navy blue, her blouse cream, but she was allowed to express some individuality in a neck tie and the band around her straw hat. She elected to wear a defiant red.

  Sarah was too keyed up to enjoy the bleak landscape. She gazed out of the porthole, lost in her thoughts, disinterested in the view.

  "Ma'am?" a piping voice sounded behind her.

  She turned, moving carefully so that her skirt would not fly up.

  A boy in a midshipman's uniform half made a salute then thought better of it.

  "Is that your sea trunk, ma'am?"

  She nodded in assent and he clicked his fingers at the porters. Two Selenites scuttled forward, sharp claws tapping on the stone floor. Like all lunar natives, they were six limbed but their exoskeleton was without the tripartite division that characterised the insect body. The size of a large dog, they stood mostly on four legs so that their front claws could be used as hands. The Queen Below bred them for Port Bedford's use as part of the Co-operation Pact with the British Empire. A not unpleasant wet-straw smell drifted off the creatures as they grappled with her luggage.

  "The captain presents his compliments, ma'am, and asks you to accompany me to the ship."

  "Thank you," she said. "Lead on."

  They made a strange crocodile through the narrow corridors, the midshipman in front, her behind, and the Selenites bringing up the rear. Convention decreed that they should walk in single file on the right. This necessitated one of the Selenites walking backwards, something that seemed to discommode him not at all. She thought of the Selenite as "him," though "it" was probably a more accurate pronoun for a sterile worker.

  Sarah stepped over the lip of a double-doored hatchway into the aethership, revealing far too much ankle for her liking. The porters banged her trunk against the hatchway. She admonished them and they listened politely, clacking lateral mouth mandibles in reply before forcing her trunk through the narrow opening. The midshipman walked on without pausing, causing her to half run to catch up. It was so undignified; her instructors had impressed upon her the importance of comportment for a lady but what was one to do?

  The air inside the aethership held a sharp tang of carbolic soap, like a newly scrubbed hospital. The ship had recently been refurbished so it did not yet smell of stale sweat seasoned with the aroma of ripe latrine but, given time, it would. Port Bedford's air was clean and natural in comparison, if a trifle musty, refreshed as it was from fungal forests Below.

  She was soon completely disorientated in the maze of cramped passageways and staircases. Sailors hurrying about their duties gave way when her party needed to pass. She ignored their interested glances. A final spiral staircase gave access to the bridge. The mid stopped in front of a man wearing a captain's uniform and smartly snapped to attention, saluting.

  The captain, who was deep in discussion with one of his lieutenants, ignored them. She took the opportunity to study the man who would be in control of her life for the foreseeable future. He was about thirty-five, tall, slim and fair haired—a typical member of the Anglo-Norman ruling families. She resigned herself to being patronised when he finally acknowledged her existence

  "My dear Miss Brown, welcome aboard Her Majesty's Aethership Cassandra." He pumped her hand vigorously and grinned. "I trust that they made you comfortable at Port Bedford while you waited for us. I am afraid we had a little trouble with our cavorite panels, which delayed our departure."

  "Thank you, yes, I was quite comfortable," she said.

  "Either I am getting older, or the pilots are getting younger and prettier," said the captain to the officer beside him.

  She blushed: the interview was not going precisely to her expectations.

  "This is my first independent posting but I assure you that I am properly qualified, Captain Fitzwilliam," she said. She tried to sound brisk and efficient but it came out as pompous.

  "I never doubted it, dear lady," he said.

  He cocked his head to one side and looked expectantly at her.

  For a second Sarah's mind blanked and then she realised that she had unaccountably forgotten to carry out her first duty. Fumbling in her bag, she finally managed to remove the two critical pieces of paper. Why did everything take twice as long when one was flustered?

  "My posting and pilot's certificate, sir," she said, handing them to him.

  He cast a quick eye over them as convention decreed before handing the certificate back.

  "Show the lady to her room, Mister Chomondely," he said to the midshipman.

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  She made to go but the captain stopped her with a raised finger.

  "I hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight, Miss Brown, but in the meantime, stow your gear quickly and strap yourself in, as we shall be lifting shortly." He glared at the other officers as if defying them to contradict him.

  The midshipman showed her aft to a small cabin, taking his leave of her without entering. The click-clack of Selenite claws disappeared down the corridor as she shut and locked the door. Pilots had a special status on Queen Mary's ships because the Royal Navy still struggled with the concept of a lady in the crew. Ruling Queens were a long accepted tradition in Britain, ever since Queen Boudicea told her groom to sharpen the scythe blades on her chariot wheels while she looked up London on the map, but ladies on a Royal Navy bridge were anathema.

  The Senior Service had settled for a typical British compromise. She was classed as an officer and so bunked aft and ate in the wardroom. However, it was strictly understood that she most assuredly had no place in the chain of command. One of her instructors had compared the position of Royal Navy pilots with that of the army's regimental mascots—and not to the detriment of the latter.

  Stowing her luggage took little time as there was very little storage space to put anything in. She left most of her possessions in her trunk, which she pushed with some difficulty under the bunk. Then she arranged herself on the narrow bed and fastened herself down with the safety webbing. She stared blankly at the featureless grey walls, trying to control her breathing. Terrors nibbled at the edges of her mind like hyenas around a wounded beast but she was determined not to give way to hysteria. She inhaled and held her breath for a count of two, then again to a count of three and so on. Slowly, she brought her rebellious body under control.

  Sarah balanced a watercolour miniature on her stomach that depicted the likeness of a cavalier sitting upon a rearing horse. He waved his hat high over his head with one hand while the other pointed a pistol at a coach. A speech-bubble depicted him saying "Stand and deliver all enemies of the crown."

  She composed herself and prayed, slipping gently into a trance, but she was nervous and could not quite achieve enthesis. When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but featureless light grey haze, like sunlit fog.

  "Captain, Captain, are you there?" she asked.

  White rings formed cloud-like shapes, sharply defined on the outside edge but fading into mist in the centre. They developed, imploded, and were replaced in a repetitive moving pattern. She prayed harder and for a moment thought she saw the shadow of a figure but it drifted away when she reached out. Her sto
mach lurched and she disconnected, suddenly back in her cabin. She was upside hanging by the webbing, which alternatively pulled and relaxed at her body as she became lighter and heavier. The three coloured galvanic warning lights over the cabin door shone steadily; the ship was lifting from the lunar surface.

  Her stomach lurched again as she first became weightless and then fell back into her bunk as down reasserted itself. Obviously the engineering problems had not been entirely addressed. She grabbed the bowl that a steward had thoughtfully clipped to her cabin wall and was violently and horribly sick.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  She was a fashionable five minutes late, as befitted a lady. The gentlemen failed to stand when she entered the captain's cabin. Naval surgeons had become exasperated at patching up young officers injured while making ever more gallant gestures of respect to the ship's pilot, so the usual niceties were ignored.

  "Sit opposite me, Miss Brown," said the captain, gesturing to an empty place at the table. "May I introduce my first lieutenant, Mister Brierly, my engineering officer, Mister Fadden, and Lieutenants Crowly and Smythe. Major Riley here is the commander of our marine contingent." He gestured at an officer dressed in red rather than the otherwise ubiquitous navy blue.

  She exchanged polite greetings with the men. Brierly was a good ten years older than his captain and his accent suggested a modest north country background. He must be competent to rise to first lieutenant, but not quite good enough to be posted captain without patronage.

  Fadden was a cheerful, round faced character whose figure suggested that he was an accomplished trencherman. Engineering officers, like pilots, were a relatively new innovation in the Royal Navy. The complexity of operating aetherships demanded specialist skills, something only reluctantly conceded by the traditionalists who tended to regard any change as a source of potential ruin to the service.

  One of the young lieutenants sprang up to seat her, his breeding as a gentleman momentarily overcoming official regulations. She was not sure which lieutenant was which, so she murmured vague thanks.

  "May I congratulate you on your splendid gown, Miss Brown? It brings a welcome splash of colour to our grey existence," said the captain.

  "Yes, top hole," said a lieutenant, eying her enthusiastically. She thought it was the one called Smythe.

  His captain quelled the young officer with a glance.

  Actually, she was pleased that they had noticed how much effort she had expended in dressing for dinner. She had always considered that the maroon evening dress showed her modest figure off to best effect.

  Now that the party was complete the steward served soup. She looked down at the complex array of cutlery and glasses in front of her and felt the familiar surge of panic. A woman in a Royal Navy wardroom had to look, behave and think like a lady—had to be a lady. She had been extensively trained at the Academy to play the role but deep down she feared that one day someone would point the finger and publicly denounce her as a fraud.

  Inside, she was still the same fourteen-year-old daughter of a Bermondsey costermonger that she had been before the Spiritualist Church had selected her in the annual sweep. The sneers and gibes of the better-bred girls in the dormitory had cut deep and left permanent scars. She had been plucked out of one world and dropped into another, gilded like a fake antique in an auction. The most frightening thing of all was that she couldn't go back to her old life if she failed in the new one. She now lacked the social and practical skills to survive in Bermondsey. Sarah was not even her real name. Her parents had christened her Daisy but ladies did not have flower-names. The better London houses were full of maids with names like Daisy, Rose, or Violet "below stairs" but such names were never found "above."

  It took a moment to register that Captain Fitzwilliam was speaking.

  "I was not sure that you would be joining us, Miss Brown. I was concerned that you might be indisposed." He grinned at her slyly.

  He knew she had been sick! How had he known? She glared at the steward who avoided making eye contact. The little rat had dobbed her in to the captain. She was so angry that she forgot her anxieties, which on reflection might have been Fitzwilliam's intention all along. This one would merit watching carefully, as he might be a lot more subtle than he looked.

  "Not at all, Captain," she said with a smile. "I have been looking forward to dinner."

  "I'm impressed by your fortitude," said Fitzwilliam. "Personally, I found getting underway so disturbing that I nearly lost my lunch. I haven't experienced rolls like that since I rounded Cape Horn as a midshipman."

  The engineer adopted a defensive expression and talked for some time on the difficulties involved in balancing galvanic flow through the various cavorite panels that repelled the moon. Sarah knew the basic theory, of course, the polarity of cavorite could be excited using galvanism, but she was uninterested in the practical details. The Navy called the composite ceramic-metal alloy "cavorite" in honour of the inventor of the first aethership. Cavorite was also used to maintain normal body weight in the ship once it was clear of the pull of a heavenly body. This was essential as early explorations had revealed that people weakened quickly when weightless.

  Sarah let the conversation drift over her and gave the excellent dinner her full attention. She had gone hungry far too often as a child, so the habit of wolfing down food when it was available was hard to eradicate. She forced herself to toy fashionably with a potato, as befitted a lady. A word caught her attention.

  "Let's hope we achieve metastasis more smoothly," said Fitzwilliam.

  "I've never experienced metastasis," said Lieutenant Crowly, or maybe it was Smythe. "What's it like?"

  The first lieutenant, Brierly, crooked a forefinger at the young man, summoning him closer. "You want to know what metastasis feels like. Well, I'll tell you. It's as if someone forces his fist down your throat and pulls you inside out."

  Brierly snapped his hand at the young man's face, causing him to recoil back in his seat so hard that he almost went over backwards. The older officers laughed at the younger man's discomfort.

  "Fortunately, the whole thing is over quickly," said Fadden.

  "As short-lived as a young man's stamina," said Major Riley, eliciting another round of guffaws.

  "Gentlemen, lady present," murmured Fitzwilliam. "Is metastasis equally fast and unpleasant for you, Miss Brown?"

  "Pilots are rather busy at the time, finding our way and so on," she replied, vaguely.

  The Pilot's Academy had firm views on what knowledge was suitable for general circulation and what was best restricted.

  "But of course you have your spirit guide to help you," Fitzwilliam said.

  "Can you pilot without a spirit?" asked Brierly.

  "In theory," she replied. "But it is easier and safer if the pilot is in enthesis with a guide."

  "And who is your guide?" asked Fitzwilliam.

  "Captain James Hind, the highwayman and cavalier who was hanged for high treason in 1652. It is said he tried to assassinate Cromwell himself on the London road from Huntingdon. The Lord Protector had seven guards and Hind but one accomplice so the attempt failed. Captain Hind barely escaped; his friend was taken and executed on the spot."

  "Indeed!" Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "Then we must drink a toast to the good Captain Hind, gentlemen, as we shall be entrusting ourselves to his care shortly."

  The men raised their glasses and gave a ragged chorus of "Captain Hind." She raised her glass to her lips with them but did not drink. She had learnt to pace herself very carefully with alcohol. The temptation to drown her social anxieties in the comfort blanket of intoxication was too strong.

  "Do you think that the spirit guides really are the souls of dead people, Miss Brown or something inhuman?" asked Lieutenant Crowly.

  "The Spiritualist Church is certainly of the view that they are human. They believe that the soul passes through layers of heavenly spheres as it gains enlightenment, until it is holy enough to come back and guide the living," she replied.

  "I have often wondered why spirit guides devote so much time to our needs," said Fitzwilliam. "What's in it for them?"

  This was delicate and she felt the glow of a blush heating her cheeks. The captain's smile broadened. Bastard!